Monday, July 2, 2012

July 2: Being a Poet, Great Panel, "Carol" Dip

Linda Nemec Foster:  a hard act to follow
Well, fresh from my appearance on the U. P. Book Tour in Republic, Michigan, I am a little tired but feeling wonderful.  The panel of writers was diverse and great, from the poets down to the historians.  We had poems, songs, and stories about starvation and fly-fishing nuns.  I read in the second half of the program, following Linda Nemec Foster--the most accomplished and entertaining writer of the group.  Linda brought down the house were her poems, and then I had to step up.  It was a little daunting, but I managed to grab hold of some of Linda's fireworks and not get burned. 

Last night just proved one thing to me.  Despite small audiences.  Despite limited opportunities for publication.  Despite years of honing my craft.  Despite lack of glory or honor or prestige.  Despite all of these things (and a few more I didn't mention), I LOVE being a poet.

There, I said it.

Today is Monday, and that means it's time, once again, to play the Carol dip game.  For those doubters out there, I wish to point out something.  Last week, I asked a question concerning the fate of a certain Today Show anchor.  The great book of Dickens predicted the departure of said anchor.  Last Thursday, Ann Curry quit Today, despite the fact that Ann is/was the nicest co-host Matt Lauer ever had.  Ann is gone, and Dickens knew it.  So what if everybody from Entertainment Weekly to Elmo was predicting Ann's demise.  The point is that you should never doubt the power of the Carol dip. 

Now that I have that off my chest, I will ask my question for today.  After much thought and reflection, I have settled on the following query:

Will I get sunburned on July 4th?

And the answer from Ebenezer Scrooge and company is:

To sit staring at those fixed, glazed eyes, in silence for a moment, would play, Scrooge felt, the very deuce with him.  There was something very awful, too, in the spectre's being provided with an infernal atmosphere of its own.  Scrooge could not feel it himself, but this was clearly the case; for though the Ghost sat perfectly motionless, its hair, and skirts, and tassels, were still agitated as by the hot vapour from an oven.

I'm in trouble.  Just look at that string of adjectctives:  "very awful," "infernal atmosphere," and "agitated as by the hot vapour from an oven."  This description of Marley's Ghost isn't very comforting.

Saint Marty better purchase himself some sun block.

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